


Pancakes

by maximum_overboner



Series: The Exchange [6]
Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Dark Darkfic, Darkfic, Depictions of Domestic Abuse, Emotional Abuse, Emotional Manipulation, Extremely One Sided Relationship, Fontcest, Forced Incest, It Doesn't Get Darker Than This Folks, M/M, Suicidal Ideation, body swapping, depictions of ptsd and dissociation, depictions of rape, sort of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-01
Updated: 2016-09-01
Packaged: 2018-08-12 08:14:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,752
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7927327
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maximum_overboner/pseuds/maximum_overboner
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Gaster has won. His plan has succeeded, and he's living under the guise of Papyrus, free to carry out all of his whims as long as he maintains the facade. </p><p>He's banking on Sans doing anything to keep his dear, sweet brother happy. </p><p>Anything.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pancakes

**Author's Note:**

> There are two fics of setup for this, so it's not going to make an ounce of sense without them i'm afraid! ^^;; The fics in question are called 'I'm Feeling Fine Kid' and 'Husk', and can be found within this series. 
> 
> This is for the people that requested this is the comment section of Husk; I appreciate your kindness and patience with me so, so much, and I hope it lives up to your expectations. 
> 
> Now with that being said; content warnings. If you could handle husk you'll probably be fine, but i will say, there are extremely graphic depictions of violence, rape and abuse, so please be careful. 
> 
> Thank you to my lovely proofreader danni, who i apparently owe a whisky to 
> 
> I hope you enjoy it.

 A little known benefit of being a seasoned warrior is that you’re peppered with scars.

 Now whilst that was not an immediate boon to everyone; some considered them unsightly, after all, it was most certainly a benefit for the good doctor Gaster, as scars implied wounds, and wounds implied openings. Gaster needed openings for what he was about to try and achieve.

 ‘One wish. Out of the goodness of my heart. One wish.’

 Undyne steadied her grip on her knees. It had been two days since Papyrus died, every speck of dust imprinted on her mind, staying with her forever. Two suicides in two days, and in her shaking grief, she couldn’t let it be three; Alphys had went quiet until Undyne moved herself into her squalid apartment to tend to her. She had only been eating instant noodles. She refused to speak about it when asked. She, much like Sans had been, was not well.

 Gaster counted his blessings.

 “I just... Let her be happy. It doesn’t have to be with me, just... Please, let her be safe. I’m begging you.”

 She squirmed in her seat, unused to asking for anything, and Gaster watched from his point in the blankness.

 ‘Consider it done.’

 Undyne looked to the shards of metal in her hands, too grief-stricken to question it, as they jingled faintly in her coarse palms. She was not sure where they came from initially, and she hadn’t removed the sliver from her heel. She had a sneaking suspicion they might kill her. She was too numb to care.

 Papyrus. These were in Papyrus. Poor, weak, innocent Papyrus. Gaster picked up on her thoughts.

 ‘He wasn’t strong enough to cope. You are. The heroine. The saviour. You can do what was once thought impossible. You can save her.’

 With a nod and a thick gulp, hair matted with grease, Undyne lifted her eye-patch. She had lost it in a fight with a thief back when she was a recruit; nothing so grand as to cement her in legend. No, her tenacity did that. And she was going to do it again, she knew.

 Weak, brittle Papyrus. She could cope, she always did. Bunching her shirt in her maw to stifle her cries, she braced the first piece of shrapnel, the largest one, the sharpest, to the flesh of her empty eye socket. She gouged it in. She didn’t scream, only grit her teeth and clenched her palm.

 Halfway through the process, Undyne suddenly felt nauseous, and distant. But she could cope. She was strong. The strongest. She would be, for the Monster’s that were here, and for Alphy’s sake. She would take on her burdens. Give her a break.

 Two thirds. Her limbs shook with every movement, every twitch; momentous. She didn’t feel well. Shock, she assumed, she was causing herself damage. She felt something wet trickle down her face.

 ‘You’re so strong.’

 Deeper.

 ‘So brave.’

 More.

 ‘So selfless, to be doing this. You’re a hero.’

 Last one.

 With a final yelp and a smack of the knee it was done, the pain blistering through her skull and she rasped out heaving, quivering breaths.

 ‘You--’

 “Gimmie my wish.”

 Gaster clapped his hands, as if it would actually come true, and Undyne slumped with relief, settling the eye-patch back in it’s place. It skewered upon the metal. She was thankful she had done this in the dark.

 “You... You never told me what you were. Like… A demigod, or something?“

 “Most people have the wits to ask these sorts of things before doing things like this. I’m a parasite.”

 Undyne slumped further, and further, until she dissolved, until everything dissolved, until she felt her flesh fizz away as everything left her.

 And Gaster woke up. With disbelieving hands, Gaster summoned a spear then quickly dismissed it, the low hum of magic slipping away. He would only have one chance; he could feel Undyne’s excruciating willpower beat upon his mind, and he was certain he couldn’t cow her as he had done Papyrus; he had betrayed her trust, and that was it, she would do whatever it took to get back.

 It was a Friday night. It was time to go Human hunting.

 

* * *

 

 

 Gaster awoke on the path between Waterfall and Snowdin, and he shrieked with delight, long, mad howls to himself, his body an eerie blue in the light. He looked down to assess his situation, and plan his very next move, rasping, shrieking, contorting, laughing.

… Training. Memories that were not his rushed back to him, drowning out the ceaseless beating upon his mind, constant, thunderous thuds from the inside, from an empty, bleak place. He flexed his muscles. If he sprinted, cut off Papyrus before he could stumble back home, back to Sans, then he could do it.

 With a thunderous clap of his foot against the stone path, he rocketed towards Snowdin, the early morning precipitation welling in his armour, it rattling darkly with every step like a braying laugh.

 

* * *

 

 Papyrus awoke. He wished that he had not. He was in motion and toppled, his legs locking under the shock of existence, of having reality coldly sprung upon you. Snow filled his eyes. He smelt greenery. His vision was blotchy.

 All at once, it hit him, and visions of the beach, and of peace, faded. He went slack, limbs loose and soaked in the snow, and the oppressive darkness of the mountain, and his life, beating down upon him with a ceaseless weight he would never be able to cast off.

 God, he had _lost_. He didn’t know how, his memories of Gaster ended as he died, casting the shrapnel from his body, and with it, his advantage, but retaining the capacity to remember as his soul was stained and tainted from his presence, of something not of this place, this world, this universe. At least, that was what he assumed.

 It was so difficult to think. He could feel, and he couldn’t. He couldn’t remember what time it was. He couldn’t remember how far from home he was.

 Was Sans alive? Was he dead? Was Papyrus dead, perhaps this was hell? The beach, whatever it had been, had been just as clear in his mind. Fragmented thoughts flitted to and fro in his mind as he tried to desperately process the input.

 Dulled. All of it, dulled.

 He couldn’t even feel upset. He wished that he could. What he would have given to be dragging Sans out of that bar. It was terrible, seeing him like that, and it felt wrong to wish for it again, but at least then he could have been _upset_ , he wanted to be upset, but he couldn’t, the feeling teetering in his mind before falling away to a bleakness.

 Ah. His scarf was back. He couldn’t bring himself to care. Vainly, he tried to inhale its aroma, and knew vaguely that he had, but the warm feeling that usually followed was lacking.

 Everything. All of it. Bleak. And lacking.

 Shakily, he brought his palm to the ground, to the snow, so cold it burned like fire, and braced his weight. He couldn’t.

 He couldn’t.

 He thought to Sans.

 He did.

 Shaking, scared out of his wits, he pushed himself up and to his knees, swaying back and forth, before all at once everything hit him and the trauma thundered in, reminding him what had occurred, all of it a hellish blur with only brief moments of respite. He retched. It felt as if his bones were going to separate and split like timber as saliva trickled uselessly from his maw, feeling dozens of invisible hands paw and grope at him, hands that were his own, and weren’t, phantom mockeries, his own mind working against him when he desperately needed to think, he needed to stand up, it had been too long, he didn’t know what was going on, he _needed to stand up_.

 Sunlight was splitting the top of the mountain. Time escaped him, was a distant and frightful thing, difficult to grasp after his time in the void.

 Finally he stood up.

 He saw a figure in the distance, running, and squinted, around thirty feet away.

 … Undyne?

 Her armour jangled as she ran, though it was if she wasn’t carrying any weight at all.

 “ _Hello, Papyrus!”_

Of course.

 Gaster.

 With wild strides and lolling limbs, Gaster came skidding to a halt in front of him, limp and livid.

 A long, mad cackle, limbs loose and head rolling, victory smeared in vindication and taunts.

 “I’m not going to _bother_ giving you the option to present yourself and have it be painless, I’m not going to give you that _luxury_ after what you went and did, no, I hope you kick and scream the entire way. I hope you bash your own skull in; I could live like that, I could say the Human attacked me when Sans inevitably asks, I’d rather live battered and mangled than have you even _think_ about coming back.”

 Papyrus found his footing, his face contorting into a snarl as he raised himself to his full height.

 “YOU--”

 He felt the full weight of Undyne’s fist connect with the side of his face with a sickening crack, a thunderous left hook battering chips off of his skull, knocking him to the ground with a loud, cold thud. The pain was burning, and he heard a tinny, rattling shriek from the inside of his skull, and he became dimly aware that he was making the noise. He was hoisted up by his scarf, and through bleary eyes, saw Gaster’s maddened, wide eyed gaze, all remnants of his cool manner cracking completely, giving way to celebration and frothing, manic victory.

 Gaster crammed his tongue inside Papyrus’ mouth, who went limp, too horrified to act, still reeling from the blow. He felt the tongue slather at the inside of his teeth before, sickly, felt a fleshy, cold palm grasp roughly at his groin. In a spat of clarity, he pushed Gaster back, the inside of his bones feeling like ice, foreign slime dripping from his mouth, falling limply to the ground once more before scrambling up.

 Gaster paused, mulling, scrunching his face as if tasting wine, the expression not suited to Undyne’s features at all.

 “... No. Nothing. Not like Sans. It was worth a try, at least!”

 Papyrus glanced to the path behind Gaster, his now domineering frame, Undyne’s, blocking it. He could make a break for it. He could distract him long enough to sprint back to town, make it a game of who could run the fastest. Undyne, while _not_ being over the hill, was older, carrying more bulk in her muscles. Papyrus might be able to do it. It would be a case of distracting Gaster and getting to Sans, God, Sans, he would know what to do.

 He couldn’t just _kill_ him, despite every bone in his body wanting to. Because, deep down, Undyne was still in there. In the way he moved, in the way Gaster swayed on his feet, shifting his weight as if in a boxing match, head down and shoulders squared, shorter, but more physically able, built to endure after years of keeping the Guard together with nothing but willpower.

 “YOU CAN LEAVE.”

 Gaster furrowed his brow, shrapnel propping up his eyepatch in thick, unsightly clusters.

 “I’LL... I’LL FORGIVE YOU. IF YOU GO. IF YOU GIVE HER BACK. I WON’T TELL ANYONE WHAT HAPPENED.”

 “Why would I want that?”

 Papyrus stayed silent.

 “... Why would you want that? You hate me, more than anything, I can’t grasp why you would ever try to ‘forgive’ me.”

 “BECAUSE,” he said dully, flatly, an automaton that functioned only when it was supposed to, “I STILL CAN’T BRING MYSELF TO THINK THAT THE WORLD IS SO LACKING IN GOODNESS THAT IT WOULD ALLOW YOU TO CONTINUE BEING... THE WAY YOU ARE. JUST... JUST GO. LEAVE. I HATE YOU. I FORGIVE YOU. LEAVE.”

 “That’s not a real reason. You’re trying to distract me long enough to sprint by.”

 Papyrus went cold. Breathing became more difficult. It felt as if his armour was going to constrict, and crush him, and he would welcome it.

 “I WOULD ASK HOW YOU KNOW THAT,” he said, “BUT WE BOTH KNOW WHY.”

 “You’re catching on. That took you long enough. Idiot.”

 “BUT I DO MEAN IT. IF YOU LEAVE, I WON’T SAY ANYTHING. I’LL PRETEND EVERYTHING IS FINE, IF YOU SPARE SANS.”

 Confusion marred Gaster, and thus Undyne’s, face.

 “I refuse.”

 “I KNEW YOU WOULD,” Papyrus said, bleakly, pain cascading down his face in hot waves. “BUT IT’S WORTH TRYING, ISN’T IT? IT’S NOT AS IF YOU CAN TAKE ANYTHING ELSE FROM ME.”

“I’m doing you a favour.”

 That. That gave Papyrus pause, standing there, soaked in fresh snow, sweat trickling down his spine like the fingers of a lover.

 “You wanted to be coveted, didn’t you? Well I do. Very, very much.”

 “HAVING PEOPLE REMEMBER MY NAME IS DIFFERENT FROM THIS AND YOU DAMN WELL KNOW IT.”

 “How different, exactly? I’ll remember you. Given what I went through in a year, to give so much and have my name scrubbed from history, I think I’m being rather merciful.”

 Papyrus stared back, growing hysteria in his ribs, his movements becoming shakier and more difficult to coalesce into movement.

 “EVEN AFTER ALL THIS TIME, I’M STILL ASTOUNDED BY YOUR CAPACITY TO BE SO SELFISH. EVEN AFTER ALL OF THIS.”

 “My God, just come right out with it.”

 He did.

 “I _HATE YOU_ ,” he mumbled, “I _HATE YOU_ SO MUCH.”

 Gaster smiled, dark armour glinting against the pinkened sky of morning, azure skin slimy against the precipitation.

 “We really aren’t that different, then.”

 With a loud, braying laugh, in Undyne’s rasping, low, but distinctly feminine cadence, Gaster lunged forward, hands primed like claws.

 “I’ll tell you what. I’ll even let you get a free _hit_ \--”

 Gaster felt a white, then red, pain blister across his face as Papyrus battered him with his full strength with a conjured bone, hard enough to dislodge a few of Undyne’s many teeth. He hit the ground face first, snout filled with mud and stones that were as sharp as glass.

 “... Oh my God, you actually did it.”

 Papyrus looked back, gaze steely. Warped. Looking the same as he once did, but his eyes were set with something grim and slithering.

 “... You struck Undyne.”

 All at once that hardened gaze retreated to something fearful as Papyrus’ weapon began to crumble in his hands.

  _Undyne._

 Gaster slowly stood, letting his tongue rattle and push out a few loose teeth, thick blood dripping down his maw; the preclusion to dust. Papyrus swayed.

 He had just wanted to give Sans a break. Time for a few naps, was all, and it had turned to this. This was absurd.

 Gaster watched as Papyrus held out his palms to the sides, before swooping them in front of himself, watched them shake with excruciating effort, watched a ruined, malformed skull materialize in the air before dripping away. Papyrus let out a sob, before trying again as Gaster approached. Another broken skull, thinner than Sans’ dog-like beasts, like that of a horse’s, with a punched-out hole in it’s side as the bone desperately tried to align itself and failed. Finally, it dissipated like the other, but not before swaying uselessly in the air, letting out a low creak, like that of a door.

 “PLEASE”, Papyrus begged it, legs caving. He tried to motion for it to fire upon him, as Sans’ had, but it didn’t take.

 “PLEASE, PLEASE JUST _KILL ME_.”

 Another skull. Worse than the last. A huge, gaping hole where it’s snout should have been, and a low, hellish groan. He had done this before, accepted death. He knew he had the guts, for lack of a better term.

 “I’M BEGGING YOU, _I CAN’T TAKE THIS ANYMORE_.”

 Flecks of white, and blue, and shards of bone that made up the outline of a skull, negative space that created a vacuum.

 “THIS IS HELL,” he sobbed, fingers weakly groping at the dirt beneath as he willed the skulls into existence, each summoning tiring him more until he couldn’t stand; the last ditch effort of a desperate man.

 “ _THIS IS HELL!_ ”

 His shoulders felt heavy, like hot iron was being pressed to his back, his bones screaming as he over-exerted himself. Yet another porcelain abomination, that chipped and slivered and broke, just as he had, until it let out a cacophonous roar and he dared to hope it would incinerate him just as it once had Sans; painless and instant, in contrast to his agonized thrashing.

 “PLEASE, PLEASE GOD.”

 Gaster looked down upon him with reverence, the sort he had always wanted to attain.

 “PLEASE, GOD, _LET IT BE OVER._ ”

 “No,” Gaster responded, with simple candour, as if declining a drink, and Papyrus could only howl in despair. In his mind he could almost see the beach, with sands he would never see again, with Sans, who he would never truly see again, not in the way he wanted, not as brothers.

 He looked up blearily, his soul thudding sickly in his chest, suddenly feeling a crushing weight on his pelvis. Gaster was straddling him, the full weight of the Guard armour beating down upon his body, pinning his arms, until all he could do was weakly wriggle his legs.

 Gaster, despite everything, felt Undyne kick and scream from the inside.

 “This,” he rasped, “is going to be a difficult one.”

 He flipped up the eyepatch to reveal the fleshy, moist cavern of Undyne’s eye socket, skewered with shrapnel that sat like bone shards, protruding from the pink, wet mass. Papyrus watched in bleak, numb horror as Gaster plunged his fingers into the opening, clawing out small slabs of shrapnel, groaning lowly at the pain in Undyne’s thick, rasping voice, his own being superseded under her own immense willpower as oozing, purulent chunks of infected flesh tumbled from it in turn, sloughing under the weight of his exertion. It couldn’t be all of the shrapnel, that was important. It couldn’t be all of it.

 “ _Arm_.”

 “NO!”

 It was prised apart until it almost cracked, shards shoved haphazardly in, slicked with a gore he was becoming uncomfortably familiar with. He felt the dizziness, the nausea overtake him again, as everything slowly faded.

 “ _Spine_.”

 “ _N-NO._ ”

 Another fistful, most tumbling haphazardly to the ground. Gaster suddenly went very, very still, thighs braced to the side of Papyrus’ pelvis, as if they were making love.

 Papyrus felt his fingers twitch.

 “A few more, then,” Gaster slurred, his movements becoming more difficult, motioning with an unnatural twitch. Like watching the figures on a rewound tape, he spasmed with something dangerously close to normal movement.

 “ _Neck_.”

 “ _PLEASE_.”

 “Quiet.”

 Gaster picked up a few shards of shrapnel, him, really, from the snow around them, scooped them up with great difficulty, before cramming them in. He stilled, and concentrated once again, and Papyrus felt a slithering heat travel to his arm before it moved entirely against his will.

 He couldn’t move. His jaw was locked, and he felt a trickle of saliva slip from his closed jaw, though he lacked the will to be mortified.

 Undyne’s eyes sparked to life with a gasp, though from her movements, it was clear that she herself had great difficulty moving.

 “P-Papyrus, dude, y-- I can’t move, fuck, y-you gotta run dude, I don’t know what the hell this thing is--”

 How the hell had she managed that? Gaster was impressed.

 Papyrus strained against his own arm as it raised slowly above his head, a freshly conjured bone creaking in his hands as he fought against it, his movements not his own, his voice not his own.

 “I-I--”

 God, this was difficult. He could see through her and just barely, _barely_ hold her still with the shrapnel he had left, but she would break his will. It couldn’t be allowed. Not at all. He could come up with a decent excuse later.

 “Would have liked to keep you alive.”

 Thank God Papyrus were so broken, so fundamentally torn down, otherwise he would have never been able to pull this off. Papyrus, at is peak, would snap Gaster’s control, but he was so delightfully frail that, even as he struggled with all his might, it just wasn’t happening. Traumatized beyond traumatized.

 “Dude, this ain’t-- this ain’t your fault-- everything about it screamed ‘wrong’ and I-- I still--”

 She felt the razor point be pressed to her neck, and looked down defiantly. At Gaster, not Papyrus, baring her gleaming teeth and wrenching back as far as she could, a whole four inches.

 “Fuck you,” she spat.

 With a sickening crunch and a splash of gore, she was dead, her neck skewered under the pressure. Gaster was amazed she had been able to  bark and gnash at him, because by all accounts that shouldn’t have even been possible. She was a terrifying foe. One he didn’t want to face fairly.

 Papyrus saw his friend, his best friend in the whole wide world, die in front of him, and his chest heaved with sobs.

 The gore, the splattered remnants of her twitching body, gave and crumbled to dust, clumps of it coagulating as her body slowly started to vanish, with sickening, resolute defiance in her eyes to the very, very end.

 “I didn’t need to do that the first time around,” Gaster mused. “Consider that your punishment for getting in my way. Now we’re even.”

 Gaster was hit with a sickening wave of nausea as Papyrus desperately, desperately, brokenly fought with the very, very last of his strength, because he never gave up, he couldn’t, he was The Great Papyrus, he tried and tried and tried even when it was bleak, even when he had lost, but maybe, just maybe--

 Gaster stood up, dusting himself off before he plunged his hands into Undyne’s remains, shakily rooting in it to find the shards as his own body fought him.

 He had lost.  

 From then on, it was a case of repetition, of patterns memorized and re-memorized. Sans wouldn’t wake up until he was _woken_ up, and thus would sleep through the entire debacle. Gaster could wait stilly for the few hours it took for them to arrive, cold and unmoving, eyes fixed on the path to the door, cross legged in the snow. The Human would show up, and Gaster would greet them at the door, all pleas and apologies.

 “I-IT WASN’T ME THAT D-DID IT, F-FRISK, IT WASN’T, I SWEAR, IT, IT WAS GASTER--”

 They would forgive him, of course, and then it would be a case of murdering them when they were looking the other way, healing with the promises of soft words and cinnamon bunnies. A Human though they were, they were still a naive, trusting child.

 A single blow to the neck.

 Hilarious.

 Then it was a case of covering for Undyne’s death. A simple one.

 They had went jogging together, and the Human murdered her in cold blood, despite their best efforts. Gaster dusted himself in her remains, as he had once done with Sans.

 Ah, Sans.

 Sweet, sweet Sans.

 What a life they would have together, he mused, humming with delight.

 Gaster bolted through the forest, trying to find life, someone to ‘inform’, as a child has just killed the Captain of the Guard, and he had bravely defeated them.

 

* * *

 

 

And like a well worn path, Gaster knew it well. He had walked it before.

“SANS! OH GOD, A H-HUMAN, THEY CAME AND ATTACKED ME! A-AND I TRIED TO DEFEND MYSELF, LIKE YOU SAID, BUT I WAS TOO STRONG AND THEY--I--IT JUST--”

 Sans blinked dozily before processing the statement. Once it struck, he leapt out of his bed, panic hurrying his movements. “papyrus, i... w-what the fuck happened, are you-- oh god, what--are you alright? your skull, oh my god--”

 And the next step, he knew.

 “I’M GOING OUT!”

“have fun. don’t do anything i wouldn’t do.”

 He savoured it. Every moment.

 He did not see Papyrus.  

“You interfere,” he mumbled, aware Papyrus could hear him, “I make it as painful for him as possible. I mean it. I would rather break his bones than have you speak.”

It played out the same. The rum. Sans passing out. Gaster pressing his forehead to Sans’ as he roughly ground his pubis to his. Cumming almost immediately. Sans waking up. The lies. Like reading a fond passage from your favourite book, you know it off by heart, but welcome its soothing repetitiveness. What you have already seen is a comfort, especially when you know the conclusion. It was a conclusion Gaster reached.

He shook, gasping. The fun part was over, for now. Sans lay slack on the floor, pants down and soaked with fresh sweat, mumbling. Unconscious.   

Their first real fuck was rabid, and slavering. Sans was plastered, this time, Gaster couldn’t be bothered to wait the hour after plying him with rum. He could easily think of an excuse for their union, he knew Sans, knew what to say, how his mind ticked. It was frantic, dry rutting, as if Papyrus would take over again and ruin the whole thing, permanently.

Gaster felt a weak tugging on his mind. Because Papyrus never gave up. Never. And he responded by clamping his hand to Sans’ neck, long, thin fingers prepared to wrench, but letting the flat of his palm sit there as a warning.

“p-papyrus, you’re...” Sans hiccuped, voice fat with tears and disbelief, picking on one piece of stimuli to block out the rest. “y-you’re hurtin’ me,” he slurred.

Gaster felt the tugging stop as Papyrus caved to his fear. Gripping his neck, Gaster threw it to one side under his strength to look at Sans’ skull, still rutting, the impact forcing choked noises out of Sans as his pleas to stop turned into an indistinct slur because, luckily for him, Gaster was rubbing at the spots he knew he liked.

“ISN’T THIS GOOD? DON’T YOU FEEL _GOOD,_ SANS?” He was murmuring, voice low and rasping under the intoxication as he fucked, dryly, taking what he needed and giving only what he wanted back. Sans weakly shook his head, a thick trail of drool settling on the carpet, mingling with his steady stream of tears.

“’m gonna cum,” he admitted, to cement his own self loathing. This was his punishment. For ruining his brother like that. For being such scum. This was his punishment.

“ _OF COURSE YOU ARE._ ”

 

* * *

 

Blueberry pancakes. Two cups of all purpose flour. Whole-wheat, if you want to be healthy. Two teaspoons baking powder. One teaspoon baking soda. Do not get the two confused, Gaster reminded himself, as the pancakes would come out odd, and they couldn’t be odd, they needed to be perfect. One teaspoon salt. Two cups yoghurt. Greek, ideally, plain. Not the cheap stuff dripping in whey. It’s worth splurging a little, for a treat.

Sans sat at the table with his head in his hands, whole body shaking, entire form racked with sobs he desperately choked back, shuddering so much the chair creaked underneath him.

One egg. One cup of milk. Whole, skim, almond; doesn’t matter. One cup of blueberries. Fresh. Plump. Good enough that you need to resist eating the pack as you go along.   

Heat the pan. Mix the dry ingredients, if you mix the wet and dry at the start the mixture clumps and becomes difficult.

“oh god, what did we... papyrus, we, oh god, oh fuck, no...”

Mix the wet components; the yoghurt, the egg and the milk. The yoghurt is thick, and stubborn, but with enough whipping it breaks down. Keep at it. Bring the slurry to the dry mixture and stir until it barely comes together. Overmix and the gluten makes the pancakes chewy, rather than fluffy.

Sans has his head to the table, hands scrabbling at the back of his skull, bone against bone against bone filling the room as Gaster dutifully worked. His wet gags were so forceful he could barely sit down.

Fold in the blueberries. Softly, so as not to pop them and lose the fun of bursting them in your mouth. One quarter cup of mixture per pancake. Oil, butter or margarine works as a lubricant, to coat the pan. Wide and heavy; if the pan is too thin they burn, and all that effort will have been a waste.

“i can’t take this, i can’t, we, oh fuck--”

A common mistake is to flip the pancakes when holes begin to form. This is incorrect. You flip them when the holes appear and stay open, that signifies they are ready to turn, and are browned at the bottom.

Gaster shifted his palm around the handle of the pan, his shirt dishevelled and his lower half totally naked, still caught up in that post-sex afterglow he adored. His limbs felt looser, his body felt lighter, and he tapped his finger rhythmically as the batter cooked. He could hear Sans convulse in the chair behind him, and it was a distraction, the constant shuffling of wood against the tile, an awful scraping noise that broke him out of his blissful stupor.

“why did you... w-why did i, god, am i that bad a drunk, am --papyrus, y-you gotta get out of here and tell someone w--what i did, you--”

“IT’S FINE.”

“it’s not fine,” Sans spat, “it’s not fucking fine, this is not fine, papyrus. i’m not fine, you’re not fine--”

“DO YOU GET A COIN EVERY TIME YOU SAY THAT WORD?”

Sans sat there, as if everything had been whipped from him. Blinking. Shaking. Blank.

Gaster gave the pancake a once over. Perfect, uniform and delicious. He slid it onto Sans’ plate, before resuming, checking over the rest.

 They had consummated their relationship, and it was sublime. Their union was sublime. This called for extra.

Whipped cream. Gaster had planned on using it on Sans later, but breaking the seal wouldn’t do any harm. After finishing up Sans’ batch, giving him the perfect little circles, the most pleasing pancakes, and setting the less appealing ones upon his own, he dutifully dotted both with the cream, before setting the plate gently in front of Sans. It was a gentle sort of day, he felt. All of his movements, measured and methodical, with no more noise than was needed. Small, intimate movements.

“SANS?”

Sans heaved in his seat, gagging, tucking his arms into his clothes so as much of himself was covered as possible.

“SANS,” Gaster murmured, “ _EAT_.”

“i don’t, i d-don’t think you understand--”

“ **EAT.** ”

All hope that Sans had died and sat in his jaw like bile as wet, painful tears cascaded down his face, all sickeningly silent as even then he couldn’t bring himself to cry properly and find relief. It hovered at the halfway point, so close to being cathartic, but every time the feeling would tease him and pull back, leaving him in pain. Like rope were being whipped through his mouth, forward and back, until his teeth fell like pebbles. Had they?

He tentatively prodded at them with his finger. Still there. He wanted to snap them out of his face. Make himself uglier. Ugly, stupid boy.

Gaster gripped Sans’ hand, his boney, sodden hand that was pasted with snot and tears, and rubbed it affectionately, tenderly.

“SANS... DO YOU LOVE ME?”

Sans nodded quietly, deathly still, staring at his entrapped palm. Gaster savoured the response.

“SANS... DO YOU REALLY LOVE ME?”

Again, he nodded. Dimly, he knew what he meant. And with what little willpower he had did he deny it.

“i do. i do. but not like--”

“YOU MAKE ME SO HAPPY, SANS.”

Sans couldn’t move his hand.

“ _YOU MAKE ME SO HAPPY._ ”

“i… i-- this is _sick_.”

“HOW CAN SOMETHING SO LOVELY BE SICK? I LOVE YOU, AND YOU LOVE ME. AND WE’VE ALREADY TAKEN THE NEXT STEP, WHAT COULD BE SICK ABOUT THIS?”

“because-- i-- oh god. oh god, i shouldn’t… i shouldn’t _have_ to-- even if you weren’t my brother--”

Sans’ face scrunched, marring his cute features. He would age very well, Gaster mused, when the grew old together. He did not look twenty six, it was if he had stopped aging at twenty. Impressive, considering his lifestyle.

“ _DO YOU LOVE ME?_ ”

“you already asked--”

“ _DO YOU_ **_LOVE ME?_ ** ”

Sans numbly nodded his head, and croaked out a ‘yes’.

“ _GOOD_.”

 

* * *

 

The way Papyrus moved did not unsettle Sans in itself, that was as normal, he was exuberant and lively in all things; it was in the way he didn’t. Papyrus only moved when he thought he was being looked at, like a strung-up marionette performing for an expectant crowd, at least, Sans supposed so, as he had only caught the blankness in the corner of his eye, the vacant gazes on reflections and glances. When he looked, Papyrus would be as chipper as ever. Whistling. Humming. Tapping his hand along to the beat in his head. But otherwise, he was still. The couch would shake as he bobbed his foot to a jingle on TV, and Sans would notice it as he dozed, but as unconsciousness swept over him it would always _stop_. And when he would squint, would play dead so as to observe, then his brother was deathly, eerily still, like a shredded carapace propped up where his brother once was, an empty husk with nothing to fill its space. It was something he couldn’t call out, either. It was a vague detail that didn’t really mean anything, and as far as his problems went it was almost a non-issue.

He was drinking again. Beer. Cider. Vodka. Vodka burned, and it felt like a punishment, so it was what he would consume the most. He had lost his job, selling hotdogs on street corners. He hadn’t been outside in two weeks.

He would ask Papyrus to buy it, and he always did.

Sans knew to brace himself when he heard the bedsprings wrench, one sickening, heaving squeak that betrayed the intentions of anybody upon it. It was the sturdy bed, in his room, that Papyrus had bought him when they had made it to the surface, with down so soft it could swamp and suffocate him, with bedsprings so sturdy they wouldn’t snap under the impacts.

Sans shuddered.

Their room, he needed to remind himself, their room. Though it was more now Papyrus’ room than anything, Sans would do his best to stay out of there until it was absolutely necessary.

And Sans never looked him in the eye when they made love. Not once.

He was handled gently, softly, as if he were an antique being appraised, and that made the process that much more vile because not once did Sans question if Papyrus loved him.

Covetous, dry touches, that were to become slicked with sickening moisture, assailed him. Just firm enough that he could not block it out, if they were gentler he could perhaps pretend it was fabric, or even himself, when he squeezed his eyes shut. But it was too persistent, too… _Affectionate_ for it to be his own touch.

And he would babble on, and on, and on.

“you remember when i used to take you to the park, man? that time i pushed you on the swings, and you were always goin’ ‘higher, sans, higher’, as if i’d push you so hard you’d end up flyin’ out of the mountain. but no matter how hard i did it, you’d always kick your feet and get stroppy, sayin’ it wasn’t enough.--”

“STOP TALKING.”

“-- cause i remember. and then one day i thought ‘screw it’, and pushed you forward using my powers. i would have been about, god... twelve. so i didn’t have a good handle on ‘em, right? and i shouldn’t have laughed, it was awful, but you went screamin’ forward straight into another kid, the, uh...”

He clicked his fingers, thinking, as if he weren’t being violated. His leg juddered against the cool fabric of the turned-back sheets, every spasm making them feel warmer.

“... i think he was a mouse? or like, a rat or somethin’? never bothered askin’. his mom was so upset. and the image of you flyin’ through the air straight into this other kid’s body, screamin’ your ribs out, little arms flailin’ away is always gonna stick with me. i ran over, checked you were alright, and then lost it. just... god, i was doubled over, i nearly passed out, and i felt so bad for that other kid because he didn’t do anythin’ wrong. and his mom is shoutin’ and swearin’ at me for bein’ irresponsible, and to be fair, she had a point, but she started hollerin’ that she was gonna ‘tell my parents’ which made me wheeze. i think the part that got me the most was you didn’t even get up. you and this poor kid were in a... failure pile on the ground, both of you just dumbstruck, and you looked up at me with your big eyes like ‘i feel like there’s been a mistake’. but you both just sort of... lay there until the kid’s mom picked him up like she had just remembered she should probably fix him up--”

“STOP. TALKING.”

“but i’m in tears, my ribs are achin’, and--”

Gaster reared his hand back before striking Sans across the face, and Sans choked a little at the pain. His eyes welled up, but he continued on, in the same tone, in the same cadence.

“a-and i’m t-thinkin’ to myself, ‘god, i hope he’s alright’, c-cause i didn’t know if--”

His body was betraying him, and he was close, though he did not want to be. Every time the sensation blistered in him, it left him hollow afterwards, like a husk, like his marrow had been scraped out with a pick.

Gaster pressed harder at his pubis, stroking it in the exact fashion Sans liked, documented and processed scientifically. Sans no longer bothered to protest. His body was limp, free to be manipulated like a doll’s, tensing and relaxing only when his lower functions forced him to.

“--i-if me l-laughin’ w-was a dick move, or, or not, ‘cause it w-was after i knew you were fine, a-and--”

Gaster smirked. Sans was going to cum.

“you d-d-didn’t c-cry or anythin’, you were so brave and i-i--”

The index and middle finger, specifically, the the ring and pinky finger were useless in this situation; they had too much give. Heavy pressure, not enough to hurt, but enough to be close. Quick, repetitive strokes. Do it to the letter with no deviations and the outcome is always the same. Up. Down. Up. Down. Like Sans were doing it to himself, a dog eared page on a recipe book that he shouldn’t have seen. Up. Down. Harder. Harder. Faster. Rougher. Cumming.

“i-i-i thought t-that w-was cool, h--”

Sans’ hips locked, and his face was wet with tears he couldn’t let slither free. Gaster generously supped them from him sockets.

“ _-h-how you--!_ ”

Sans cried out, hips juddering, tears dripping off his cheeks and onto the plump bed underneath. His back arched, and he wished for it to be over as soon as possible so he could scald his bones in the shower until they flaked, but Gaster was still tending to him. It was always viscerally satisfying, always blinding and exquisite; the way people would cum in movies, or in the porn he used to watch; all gasps and mess. He hated it. He hated that. He hated a lot of things. He slumped, and went quiet, as he always did. His stories never ended. They were never enough to distract him from what was happening. And thinking of such nice things, such fond memories, to desperately escape for only a brief moment made his disgust that much more potent as he huffed, sniffling.

Gaster purred, mentally congratulating himself on a job well done. Sans curled his toes when he came, feet scrabbling at the fabric of the duvet like a dog’s on a hardwood floor, but when he turned his feet inwards, that’s when Gaster knew he had done a good job. That’s when he knew it had hit hard. Sans was breathing heavily, the lights of his eyes muddled and muted like the glare of a streetlight on a wet pavement.

Gaster did not know how someone could look quite so miserable after cumming. Perhaps it was because it was all over? He did not want Sans to be miserable. Gaster would do it again, as soon as he was able, to keep him feeling content and shuddering. But first, he was owed a favour.

“ _FINISH ME OFF._ ”

Sans was deadly, deadly quiet, now entirely still, like a corpse, not motioning forward with great enthusiasm as Gaster’s previous partners had, not trying to pull him into hugs and soft, sweet kisses. He would have actually reciprocated, which made Sans’ snubs that much more infuriating.

“ _papyrus_ ,” he said softly, bitterly, breathing raspy like that of a chain-smokers, and Gaster knew outright that it was a refusal.

“... DON’T YOU WANT TO SEE ME HAPPY? YOU MAKE ME HAPPY, LOVER.”

Sans had expected a ‘brother’, and the change in word made him recoil like he had been struck. He quelled his shakes, and hung limp. Flaccid. Useless.

“papyrus,” he repeated, so soft that it couldn’t be heard.

“SANS.”

“i-i don’t--”

Gaster huffed, indignant, his body a sickly white against their covers and bones soaked in sweat, drenched in arousal. Sans took in a deep breath, every inch of him shuddering in repulsion before he brought his shaking hand down, pressing lightly at Gaster. He shook, the motion squeezing tears out of his eyes as he clamped them shut.

“i don’t want to--”

“YOU HAVE TO. I DID IT FOR YOU. THAT’S HOW THIS WORKS.”

And it wasn’t, Sans, knew for a fact that is wasn’t, that this was wrong, that Papyrus was wrong, and yet, a small part of his mind agreed because Papyrus wouldn’t hurt him, Papyrus loved him, and perhaps this was the way things were meant to be? He was no stranger to misery, after all. He had felt his fair share of it, and if the universe were to heap it on in this way, if it made Papyrus happy... Was it so bad? That was what he told himself as his hand scraped and moved, slowly drawing towards his brother’s pelvis. He withdrew it as if he had touched a stove, and Gaster crammed it back.

Was this so bad?

His eyes were dull, and lifeless.

Yes.

It was. Of course it was.

Gaster keened into the touch, whining, jaw slack, happy, so, so happy to finally get what he deserved. He was almost in disbelief because, good God, he had waited so long. So, so long. From that lingering glance when Sans had walked into his office for the first time, the self-admittance of his juvenile crush, to his plan to end it all, to finally, finally find peace in a world that had allowed him little. That had crushed him so.

He did not foresee that he might still live. Barely. But it counted.

He felt fine, now.

He felt great.

“S-SAY, SAY MY NAME.”

“p-papyrus--”

Not quite. It would do.

Sans had his eyes wrenched shut, and was humming something forcefully, body turned away as he worked. Gaster wrenched his face to look into those deep, dark eyes, and saw his rictus twitch.

“i don’t wanna--”

“HARDER.”

“p-please--”

“ _HARDER._ ”

San’s touch lessened, and he braced himself for a blow. Gaster instead chose to focus his energy on grinding onto Sans’ carpals.

“H-HARDER, HARDER, _HARDER_ \--”

Gaster finished, and Sans did his best to block it out, all of it, out, all of it all of it all of it, drowning out the squeals with the MTT jingle that would loop between programs, in the ads they would watch back in the Underground, where things weren’t perfect, but they were good, when he was the closest to happy he had ever been. Every Wednesday was movie night, Sans would pick made for TV Sci-fi films about land sharks and other low budget drek, and Papyrus would pick some Human period drama where everyone wears frilly dresses and gets married in between long stretches of slighting each other. And they hated each other’s choices, they always did, but through mouthfuls of popcorn and snorting laughter it all--

“GOD SANS, I LOVE YOU _SO MUCH_ ,” Gaster slurred, and for a brief, wonderful second Sans smelled the popcorn and the bleach from the immaculate kitchen, and could almost feel the soft glow from the television. He smiled, softly, weakly, and the tears slipped down his cheeks. Gaster, huffing, pulled Sans closer on the bed using his strength, and Sans did not protest. With a sincere peck on the head, and running his fingers tenderly up Sans ribs to settle on his vertebrae.

“I LOVE YOU, BROTHER.”

Gaster waited patiently for the standard response, a reward for his hard work. He did not receive one. Sans dragged himself to the edge of his side of the bed, soft and plump, and tried to crush the self-loathing long enough to sleep. Gaster saw this, and he scooted to Sans to spoon him, follow him, to plant soft, affectionate kisses on his neck, to press their naked, sweating bodies together, and Sans almost convulsed with repulsion before remembering that this was... His life, now. And he forced himself to be still.

Gaster hummed in contentment, warm and dozing, settling his hands as Sans’ hips, rubbing a circle in its crest with his finger. He planted another soft kiss on the cracks in Sans’ vertebrae, murmuring praise and coos, and it felt like the legs of a spider were forcing itself in the gaps with every smooch.

“you... don’t sleep, do you, papyrus?”

Gaster tensed up.

“... NO.”

“why? why’d you stay in bed, when you don’t even sleep?”

Gaster cringed, thinking of what would happen if he were to sleep, knowing that Papyrus would pilot his body straight off of the nearest cliff. Gaster dipped down to suckle at the back of Sans’ vertebrae, in a way his body enjoyed but his mind most certainly didn’t, running a thick, conjured tongue between the gaps, lapping at his sweat, his moisture. Him. With an appreciative, lustful hum, he rasped, “I LOVE SPENDING TIME WITH YOU.”

Another soft kiss, another murmured compliment that writhed in Sans like a parasite.

No reprieve. No breaks.

Was he... Was he really that bad a guardian? To have Papyrus turn out like this? Because this was clearly his fault, Papyrus didn’t do wrong, and Sans did nothing but wrong.

That night, it took Sans four hours to fall asleep. The previous night had taken three.  

They ate pancakes the next morning, as they always did, his ‘reward’. Sans wished he could choke on them. Instead he ground them to pulp in his mouth and forced them back.

And yet, Sans’ true repulsion was saved for the little acts of affection Gaster would dole out as he went about his day. Gaster recalled a conversation Sans had long ago with Papyrus, where he dully noted that he had ‘never really got the appeal of cuddlin’, smoochin’, romance and stuff’, even if he fully understood the need for sex, and Papyrus had questioned him innocently, his outlook being all flowers and hearts and kisses, doing his best to brush over the more vulgar admission. It was an interesting conversation, and Papyrus felt he had learned something cool and new about his brother. Gaster ignored it. He would make Sans understand the appeal, no matter how long it took.

 

* * *

 

sans didn’t feel well. sans didn’t remember the last time he felt well. this was an all encompassing sickness, so pervading that it tainted what it came into contact with until it rotted and died and spewed like tumours, spewing sick sick sick sick sick sick--

the night was deep, and long, and the moon jaundiced.

“ARE YOU ALRIGHT?”

Sans blinked back the moisture in his eyes, voice flat as it always was.

“of course, papyrus.”

every memory, every single fucking memory down to the minutia was spoiled like sweet fruit left out in the sun, crawling and writhing with maggots that slipped down his gullet to choke him. papyrus was reaching over now, to kill him, he hoped, to kill him and do what he didn’t have the guts (heh) to do, to grab his thin, wiry spine and wrench it from his holding until dust trickled from his mouth and he wheezed out a ‘thanks, papyrus’ because not even that would surprise him any more. the touch was soft, and sincere, and sensual. that was worse. that was far, far worse.

he was doing the dishes now. he couldn’t remember when he had started. he couldn’t feel the warm water swish between his fingers, only registering it with his vision as his existence slipped like taut silk in his fingers, before it tightened to bruise him. the waiting. he couldn’t stand the waiting. it was the worst part. worse than the anguish, the slick, wet anguish.

it had been two weeks. it felt like two hours. and then it was two hours. it felt like two months. time stretched in front of him before snapping back like an overstretched band, leaving huge, weeping welts across his bones with every single snap. across his joints. his back. his pelvis. mostly his pelvis. he was in his bed.

snap.

he was outside, working.

snap.

kitchen.

snap.

three months.

snap.

papyrus was raping him.

snap.

in a shop, he had forgotten to pick up dinner.

snap.

he deserved this, he thought to himself. for raising papyrus so poorly. for doing such an awful job. for forcing himself on papyrus in his own drunken state. he reached the counter. vodka. straight. two bottles. depending on what was waiting for him when he got home, that would be enough to see him through to the weekend, or if papyrus was in a frisky mood, tomorrow.

each day spliced and hiccuped into the next. he could barely remember it, alcohol burned his nasal bone and sung him warmly to sleep on those cold nights. the more he drank, the more he needed. the more he drank. the more he needed. he couldn’t stand the stuff but it was cheap, and plentiful, and it, above all, was not rum.

snap.

sans was fucking himself; open palmed and sweating, rough, painful grinds into his carpals that were dark mockeries of his old routine. he’d saunter home, check papyrus wasn’t in, then tend to himself, and for a few minutes he could forget about the world, about himself and just enjoy something fun and stupid and primal. that’s why he was doing this, he knew. to claw back some control. he pressed roughly until it felt he could grind the most sensitive parts of himself to a pulp, and yet, he felt better; not in the way he was expecting, but he did. he pressed rougher still, and heard the low groan of clacking bone and his own distant grunts of pain (when had he started doing that?) papyrus was walking in the hallway. oh. sans hadn’t noticed. he wasn’t sure what day it was. what month.

he stopped.

and stared.

and sans carried on, there was no point in stopping, boundaries had already been smashed and it’s not as if he could hate himself any more.

‘Good boy,’ Gaster thought, eyes roaming in the dim hallway, his lean figure cutting through it like a scalpel. ‘Good boy.’ Sans was sobbing, quietly; because, on a fundamental level, on the most visceral plane, he didn’t understand why his life was like this. raising papyrus, the only thing he had ever tried in, really tried--

sweating and pounding and heaving and gagging. sans reared his fist to batter at his pubis before he continued as before, a brief shriek of pain that made him feel alive for a few seconds before it eroded away. that was his, those brief flashes of pain to cut through the anhedonia, only his, never to be wrenched from him and chewed up and spat back. his.

he was...

he was...

it just.

it just wasn’t happening. he didn’t know what was happening, but that wasn’t it.

thank god.

lucidity howled at him, rushing back in like a great, black wave, and with it, the crippling shame. it had only occurred to him, at that moment, where he was. and it had only truly occurred to him what he was doing, his frenzy having slinked back into the shadows, the one in the corner of his room, where it dwelt.

he did not feel quite so fragmented, so rushed, and yet he wished he did, as it gave him something to cast off. he could forget then.

he felt.

Cognisant. Worryingly cognisant, he hadn’t been able to focus on a thought in--

He blinked.

_Months._

He still had his hands down his pants, groping at himself, and Papyrus was still in the hallway. And if he could cling onto one thing, could claw it back from the precipice, it would be his shame.

He hastily threw himself under his duvet, legs scrambling and sweaty palms tearing past the fabric to provide modesty, and all at once it had hit him. A simple fact, but one that beared repeating.

This was not normal.

Gaster stood in the hallway, breathing heavily and excruciatingly aroused. But he had leftovers in the fridge, and he was hungry enough for those to win out. With a huff through his nasal bone, long and slow, he turned to walk to the kitchen, and Sans shuddered in relief.

With precise, efficient movements, Gaster turned from the end of the hall, cast in a sickly sunset that reminded Sans of fresh pus, all bright reds and mottled yellows that seeped and trickled against his face.

“... THANK YOU.”

And with that, he left.

Snap.

His name was Sans the skeleton, he recalled through foggy wisps of thought, and he desperately needed a drink.

_Snap._

They were in bed. He gave.

“get the fuck _offa me!_ ”

Sans reared back his closed fist and clattered it roughly against his brother’s face, a wild, angry pelt that was powered on nothing but blind, fitful instinct, of shock wearing off, of horror setting in. Of terror.

He could kill him. With a flick of the wrist. He could kill himself, too. It would be so easy.

“B-BROTHER?”

Sans wavered.

He _couldn’t_.

“YOU _HIT ME_ ,” Gaster roared, tears welling in his eyes, “YOU HIT ME, YOU _HIT ME! YOU CAN’T-- YOU_ **_HIT ME!_ ** ”

“you’ve hit me,” Sans croaked, plainly.

“BUT THAT’S BECAUSE YOU NEED GUIDANCE, BUT-- I-- I HAVEN’T DONE ANYTHING WRONG-- _YOU HIT ME!_ ”

And Sans was a logical man. He knew full well what was unfolding in front of him, which made his inability to avert it that much more frustrating for him, because he _knew_. He was being manipulated.

He knew, and it still worked.

“‘m sorry,” was all he could say, thinking to his parents. Gaster was shaking with rage, grinding his palm into Sans’ neck.

“YOU _HIT ME!_ ”

And Sans looked back at him, shuddering at the pain, one that would hopefully build until it all ended. All at once, he retreated, his voice an unearthly, icy calm.

“I FORGIVE YOU. EVERYONE MAKES MISTAKES.”

 

* * *

 

Alphys was dead. Gaster didn’t care. Sans did, for some reason. They had spoken once or twice in passing, in polite conversation. But Undyne was gone, and now so was she.

“so it’s, uh... really that easy, huh?”

Oh no, not again. Not again you selfish little bastard, not again.

The snow lay thickly outside, still and stifling, and Gaster put his hand on Sans’ shoulder. A reassurance. A threat.

 

* * *

 

Gaster sat with his drink; warm milk with a teaspoon of honey and a dash of cinnamon. He was reading a book, on the Human-Monster war, and laughing internally. The victors truly did write history he thought bitterly, sipping at his drink and letting his eyes linger over an especially erroneous passage, before he heard the faint shuffle of fabric from the other end of the sofa. Sans was going slack.

“WHAT ARE YOU DRINKING?”

“absinth’,” Sans slurred.

Gaster thought the drinking would have fell away as satisfaction set in, as it always did, contentedness pushing back his darker impulses. And yet, it hadn’t.

If anything, it had gotten far, far worse. He was rarely coherent. It made him more pliable, but Gaster missed the easy jokes and the warm company. His lover was suffering.

“... WOULD YOU LIKE SOME OF MINE?”

“no.”

“WELL, I TRIED.”

Sans took a long swig, retching at the taste.

“ _well_?”

“WELL WHAT?”

“‘m plastered out of my mind,” Sans said, eyes narrowed to needle-like sharpness, hoodie stained and hand braced to his skull. “aren’t you gonna say anythin’? gonna… bust in, drag me out of the bar, make a big ol’ thing of it like you always fuckin’ do? speech? posin’?”

Gaster looked at him, waiting for the tantrum to play out.

“nah, of course you ain’t.”

He laughed bitterly, too loudly for the time of night. A low, mocking bray.  

“not gonna _fix me up_ like ya always do, papyrus?”

“FIX YOU UP? YOU AREN’T A CAR, YOU’RE A GROWN MAN.”

Gaster heard a sniffle, drawn out and pathetic. Sans was smiling, as always, though the lights of his eyes were totally gone.

“were you _always_ like this? and i was just too blind to see it?”

Sans motioned to his agonized, painfully bruised pelvis, finding his courage in the bottle.

“was _this_ your endgame? when i would tuck ya in at night, tell you there was nothin’ scary under the bed and read you stories, bustin’ my ass off, teaching myself to read, to write, while raisin’ a kid, while raisin’ _you--_ ”

Another swig. Sans clung on to the burning, the pain, to steady his wavering voice and his swirling thoughts.

“is _this_ what you wanted?”

Gaster remained stoic and silent from his position on the couch. Sans would burn out eventually, he always did.

“do you think that’s _fair_? you think this is fair, papyrus?”

“YOU SAID YOU LOVED ME.”

“not like this,” he gurgled, limbs slack. “you’re my _brother_. you were like my _kid_.”

“YOU REACTED POORLY WHEN YOU WERE CALLED ‘FATHER’.”

“yeah, well, maybe i should have let you. maybe that would unfuck the crossed wires, or… or somethin’. maybe lettin’ you call me dad would have stopped this.”

“DO YOU REALLY THINK THAT,” Gaster said, faintly amused at the pettiness of his claims.

Sans finally broke.

“nah… but, i… what did i do to you? give me somethin’ to latch onto, a sin, a wrongdoing, _anything--_ anything, papyrus.”

Gaster sidled besides him, pulling Sans into an embrace he pretended was fraternal.

“NOTHING,” he murmured, kissing his forehead, “YOU’RE _PERFECT._ MY PERFECT, PERFECT SANS.”

Hell.

                                                                                

* * *

 

It was the evening, now, and Gaster was pressing his face to Sans’, digging deep to be sincere, pushing aside his natural inclination for bile.

“I LOVE YOU SO MUCH,” he murmured.

 Sans was limp, but still, like an exquisite porcelain doll to be pushed and pulled.

“NOBODY WILL EVER LOVE YOU AS MUCH AS I EVER WILL, SANS.”

And yet, despite the year they had spent together, Sans still had the energy to look pained. He felt a warm, heated breath on his cheek, as the words were whispered at him like an incantation.

“ _I KNOW EVERYTHING THERE IS TO KNOW ABOUT YOU.”_

A long, thin hand on his front. A glazed, vacant expression upon Sans’ face.

“ _ISN’T THAT BEAUTIFUL? TO KNOW A PERSON SO INTIMATELY. THE GOOD. THE BAD. THE WORST OF THEM. AND, AFTER ALL THAT, TO STILL LOVE THEM BEYOND BELIEF, ISN’T THAT AMAZING?_ ”

Sans glanced back, the pinpricks of his eyes becoming lost in the black miasma of his sockets, that now permeated the whole space like a thick smoke, drowning out all else.

“ _I WANT TO MAKE LOVE TO YOU_ ,” he whispered.

Sans was pliant, and still.

“MOVE TO THE LEFT.”

He did.

“FACE ME, I WANT TO LOOK AT YOU AS I DO THIS.”

He did.

“SMILE, YOU LOOK LIKE YOU’RE AT A FUNERAL. BE HAPPY.”

Sans looked as dead as ever. Gaster frowned, moving Sans’ delicate skull with his long fingers.

“IT’S NOT DIFFICULT. WIDEN YOUR GRIN, SCRUNCH UP YOUR EYES. FEEL HAPPY. I AM NOT MAKING AN UNREASONABLE DEMAND OF YOU.”

This was always how it went, Sans knew. This was always how it went.

Gaster gnashed his teeth, but kept his composure as best he could. This was always the sticking point. Trust Sans not to make an effort. Typical.

Gaster pinched.

“YOU SMILE SO MUCH ANYWAY, _WHY CAN’T YOU DO IT NOW?_ ”

 Dead, stone silence, that consumed all it touched.

Gaster _clawed,_ infuriated.

“COME ON. DO IT.”

Pain, dull and distant, meandered through Sans. Nothing.

“WHY AREN’T YOU HAPPY?”

Gaster reared back his fist, striking Sans in the vertebrae. He took the blow, so used to it he no longer flinched.

Papyrus knew what Gaster was going to say, and he took great pains to mouth along with the words, as he had every time, prone, and still, fixed on the sky.

“I LOVE YOU.”

“i _hate_ you.”

Papyrus felt the stagnant tears slide from his cheek, pattering against the grass like rain as his face remained static. His dreams, dashed, as if against rock. His body, violated in ways he never could have imagined, even in his worst, thrashing nightmares. His mind, beaten and twisted and ruined, ruined after months of excruciating torture, of trying and _succeeding_ and yet failing, failing still, failing failing failing, that was what he did. From the day he had dragged Sans out of that greasy bar, Human pattering behind in tow, to meeting Gaster in the field, this exact spot, if he recalled, to agreeing to that repay that awful debt with his body, the swap, the deal, the exchange, a naive one at that; his happiness for Sans’. And then it had all spiralled away from him, slipping through his grip like sand. To the day Frisk died, soaking his hands. To Gaster winning, as he always did.

It had all come to this, hadn’t it? He couldn’t be bothered to cry anymore. He let out a weary, broken chuckle, as if Sans had slipped a whoopie cushion in his shoe, and he clung to that thought to block everything. It all slipped away, fine threads pulling taught at his joints until they snapped and left him limp, like a puppet having his strings slit until he hung loose. He didn’t care. He lacked the capacity, now, lying there on the grass, pristine and perfect, his bones marring the scenery, slack and loose, as if scattered. He looked to his hands, and did not feel them. He did not feel anything now.

Errantly, his mind wandered to the way things could have been. If he had given Sans over to Gaster when offered, he had chosen that time to appear, after all, and if it had been borne of ‘love’, of an earnest need to see Sans happy, then… Would that have been better? Sans was a smart man, could this have been avoided?

Papyrus winced at another strike.

No. It had to have been better.

It couldn’t have possibly been worse.

“ _i hate you_ ,” Sans slurred.

 

* * *

 

“SANS-- S-- SANS,” Papyrus babbled, small and gentle, looking at the book in his hands, with it’s lush descriptions of verdant, rolling hills. It was so vivid, he could see it clearly in his mind, the Human settlement in the distance marked with dotted chimney-smoke, and the thick, white clouds rolling plushly across the blue sky. Filled with knights, and damsels, and heroes that never gave up. “DO YOU-- DO YOU THINK WE’LL EVER SEE THE SURFACE?”

Sans, small and frail himself, far too old for eleven, responded without thinking.

“of course we will, bro. it’s gonna be great.”

Papyrus smiled, and settled down to nap. Warm, and peaceful, and dreaming of greater things.

  
  
  
The End.

**Author's Note:**

> Well, that was that! Not much happened, I will admit, just spelling out some of the implications. I hope it was darker than the first, and that you enjoyed it. ^^
> 
> thank you again for your patience, these past few months have been tumultuous <3


End file.
